Chopping Spree gbcm-11

by Diane Mott Davidson

  It was not until five-twenty that I scooted back out of the store. I was now the irritated, humbled owner of a seven-hundred-dollar electric guitar. Needless to say, the purchase had not proved to be as joyful as I had visualized. For some mysterious reason, my credit card company had balked at the purchase, despite the twenty-thousand-dollar limit they had recently bestowed on me. After running my card, the salesclerk had frowned, looked me over suspiciously, and announced in a loud voice, to me and all the people in line, that the sale had been denied. Did I, he asked loudly, want to pay by check, or not make the purchase? I blushed and meekly wrote out a check. Unfortunately, my card denial had rung alarms at Westside Music. While the people behind me groaned and muttered, I was forced to undergo a check-approval process that rivaled entering Pakistan without a passport.

  Hauling the bulky guitar, I trotted past the breakfast sculptures—still filled with screeching kids—and past window displays that I willed myself to ignore. When I reached the steak place, I realized I’d walked the wrong way and was at the opposite end of the mall from the lounge. If I tried to stash the instrument in the van, I wouldn’t get back to the lounge until after the jewelry event began….

  I gritted my teeth and raced back toward Westside Music. It was hard to ignore the curious stares from adults and children alike. A singing caterer works both ends of the mall? I ignored their gapes and tried to imagine Arch looking happy when he opened his gift. That happiness might last less than an hour, but so what? Besides, I had something else to look forward to: canceling that damn credit card.

  I arrived, breathless, at the Westside Music counter. I paid no attention to the salespeople, whom I’d mentally dubbed the Smirking Clerks. I announced to the salesman who’d handled the botched card sale that I needed him to keep the guitar for me, please, until later in the evening. He informed me icily that they closed at nine. I’d be back by then, I vowed, and took off.

  I stopped running only when I arrived at the lounge entrance. It now boasted two beefy security guards. Swirling around them was a chattering group of beautifully dressed women. They seemed to be milling about with the sole purpose of assessing one another’s outfits, makeup, jewelry, and shoes. Putting my sweat-drenched and rumpled caterer’s garb out of my head, I ducked past the women, then rummaged through my tote for ID. I flashed it at one of the guards, who nodded. Then I pushed through the service entrance to the kitchenette, washed my hands, and sped out to the main room.

  To my surprise, the jewelry cases had also been covered with white damask cloths. I sprinted to the tables and about fainted with relief. Julian and Liz had set out everything. The food-laden buffet looked stunning.

  “Hey, Ms. Punctuality,” Julian said, straight-faced. “Aren’t you glad Barry had a spare key to the kitchenette?”

  “Sorry, really, both of you. And… what? Barry opened up for you?”

  Julian nodded at the stage, where Barry, in fresh clothes and moving as if he, too, had downed a few painkillers, stood holding court with the band.

  “He was looking for you,” Julian told me. “Oh, but you should know that he only opened the kitchen when we promised him we’d give him something to drink. Something alcoholic. He wanted it from us instead of the bartenders, because he didn’t want any of the salespeople to see him taking a nip. Several large nips, if the truth be told. So much for him being a caffeine guy.”

  Liz giggled. Julian grinned broadly, happy to entertain.

  “So,” I asked as we sauntered back to the kitchen, “did Barry ever talk to the cops?” They both shrugged. “How did you do with them, Big J?”

  “State patrol just asked me the basics—you know, what happened and when. I told them you’d seen the accident, too, but they said they had plenty of witnesses, and since nobody had been hurt, they didn’t need to talk to you. Anyway, state patrol and the sheriff’s department officers told Victor to take them down to the truck. They told me to come, so I did. Get this. They found a pair of cuff links on the cab floor. Did we know whose they were, they asked. Victor said no, and so did I. So the cops put ’em in one of those brown paper bags. You know, the kind Tom uses for evidence.”

  I stopped and arched an eyebrow at him. He grinned. “They were gold cuff links, Miss Nosy. They had two sets of initials on ‘em and some writing on the back.”

  “Whose initials? What did the writing say?”

  “I don’t remember all of the initials,” Julian replied. “The writing said something about making money. I don’t really remember what.”

  “Julian.”

  “OK, OK, I remember one set of initials was B. D. So maybe they were Barry’s.”

  I thought again of Barry’s paranoia, how he’d wanted to talk to me, how he’d freaked out over the truck incident, how he’d then decided not to chat with me, but hustled back to his office.

  “Go figure,” I murmured.

  Liz shook her head. “All Barry Dean could think about was getting a drink. He slugged that expensive Burgundy straight from the bottle. Said he couldn’t take much more for one day.”

  Julian added, “He said you were his old buddy and it would be OK—”

  “Don’t worry,” Liz told me, “I threw away the rest of that bottle. Thirty-four bucks a pop, though. We should charge him extra.”

  I made for the stage. Barry was plugging in his microphone. No question about it, the man cleaned up well. In fact, he looked downright spiffy in his tuxedo. As I got closer, though, I noticed his face was red and sweaty. Worse, he was a bit too obviously chewing on a mouthful of breath mints.

  “We’ve got a videographer here,” he began, once he’d swallowed the candy. He pointed to another tuxedo-clad fellow clutching a camera. “Every woman attending gets a video of the event,” Barry went on, “so she can see herself in her chosen necklace or earrings. You’re not camera-shy, are you?” I groaned. “Don’t be nervous, we’ll cut any food accidents.”

  “Actually, old buddy, what makes me nervous is you drinking wine straight from the bottle.”

  “Oh, sorry about that.” He paused and gave me the full benefit of his seductive brown eyes. He seemed to be struggling with words, thoughts, something. “Goldy, about that truck—”

  “Did you talk to Colorado State Patrol?”

  “Er, no, but I wondered if—”

  Whatever he was wondering was cut short by the band striking up “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” Barry muttered something that sounded like “Holy Moly” as the lounge doors opened.

  The Army of Gorgeous Women streamed in. Clad in bright-hued silk, satin, and taffeta, they hiked up their skirts and flew to the shrouded jewelry cases. Exclamations of Damn! and What’s going on? rose above the music. Barry grabbed the microphone.

  “Ladies,” he announced, “and gentlemen,” he added, acknowledging the sprinkling of men, “before we start with our serious business tonight, please help yourselves to drinks and hors d’oeuvres! Then I will explain how our event is going to work!”

  I made my way to the kitchen while Barry flattered the women and charmingly described how easily and effortlessly they could wear these hundred-thousand-dollar pieces they needed and owed to themselves, for mere pennies per month. Julian and Liz hauled loaded appetizer trays out to the guests. I snagged a platter of empanadas and sailed after them.

  “… And for those of you who are still in need of a bargain for that next big party,” Barry was announcing fervently, “look for the perfect pair of shoes at Prince and Grogan’s Red Tag Sale! Tonight, you Elite Shoppers are entitled to an additional fifteen percent off….”

  “Barry Dean is so charming,” Marla said as she sidled up next to me. She winked and dunked an empanada into guacamole. She was wearing a stunning royal blue dress with a matching cape. Without her usual array of glittering jewelry, she looked different. She’d informed me she wanted to come to the event as a clean canvas. “I’d love to listen to Barry Dean all the time. In my car, in the bathroom, in bed… while looking at
his picture.”

  “How was the spa?”

  “Fabulous! Plus, I have so much to ask you, especially about—”

  “Marla, I have to—”

  “Calm down, I’m having a couple of empanadas.” She grabbed her cape and folded it over her arm, then nabbed two more empanadas, downing one and then the other, while four other women helped themselves to my tray.

  “Tell me about the truck,” Marla whispered conspiratorially, once the women had moved on. With a paper napkin, she wiped creamy green stuff from her upper lip.

  “You heard about that already?” I asked, stunned. Marla opened her eyes wide, a picture of offended innocence. Of course the Queen of Gossip knew about everything. why was I surprised? “Well,” I began, “somebody got into a truck, slammed down the accelerator, barely missed Barry the Charming, not to mention yours truly. Then whoever was driving crashed the truck into the berm. Trying to get out of the way, Julian, Barry, and I all got soaked with mud and grime. I lost a whole box of shrimp rolls, not to mention a big chunk of setup time.”

  “How’d you ever get the food done, then?” she mumbled through another empanada.

  “The excavator and his crew helped. They brought in almost every box. Actually, I guess he’s the construction manager for the mall addition. He said he felt responsible for one of his trucks almost killing us.”

  “That’s not Victor Wilson, is it?”

  I sighed. And here I thought Marla only knew folks with incomes of a million and up. “How can you possibly know…”

  Marla looked sideways, taking in the fact that Julian and Liz were bringing out the first plates of truffles. “I don’t know him. I went out with his brothers. Don’t give me that look. Consecutively, not simultaneously. First was Bachman. Bachman’s a surgeon, a friend of The Jerk’s. Well, sort of a friend. John Richard couldn’t stand that Bachman gave better parties than he did, which is why I went out with him.” She frowned at the empanadas, as if unsure whether to have another one. “Victor’s other brother is an attorney, has a big place in Aspen, built for him by Victor, he said.”

  “Nice. Now if you don’t mind—”

  “Julian told me they found some cuff links inside the truck.” Marla finally decided to tuck into another empanada, her fifth. “Do you have any idea whose they were?”

  “No. I don’t suppose you know whose they were.”

  “Not yet. But I will. Here’s a juicy tidbit for you, though. Shane Stockham has just lost his lease at The Gadget Guy. He’s trying to placate dear wife Page, who told us at the spa that she heard this morning about his cash dam, which is the opposite of cash flow. Page wants a bauble from the diamond people, and Shane’s stretched thinner than gold plate. Brace yourself: You might see fireworks.”

  I glanced at the Stockhams, whom I was doing lunch for later in the week. Had I received the final payment for their event? I couldn’t remember. As I watched, Shane reached for his wife’s shoulder. She moved out of his reach. I groaned. After I refilled the platter, I took up a plate of truffles and headed for some hungry-looking ladies who were drooling over the handsome twenty-something guys in the band. Barry, who’d just finished a glass of water (at least, I hoped it was water) stepped back up to the microphone.

  “I truly can’t believe how gorgeous you all are! You look as if… well, as if you were going out for a fancy dinner with your husband’s new boss!” This was met with squeals of laughter. “But ladies…would you feel completely confident if you weren’t wearing some very special jewelry, the kind that indicated how important you really are? What if your husband’s new boss happens to be a twenty-eight-year-old woman who wears skimpy dresses from Escada and diamond necklaces from Tiffany’s?”

  The women glanced uneasily at one another. Clearly, Barry’s attempt to make them feel insecure was hitting home.

  “Wouldn’t you want to be certain you looked your best?” Barry crooned. “But you wouldn’t want to wear a piece that could bore you in a year, would you?” There was a ripple of edgy laughter. “That’s why we’re here! We’ll get you to elegant at a fraction of the cost… and next month you could start wearing something completely different!”

  As he launched into an explanation of leasing, I glanced around and saw Julian chatting with Liz and, of all people, her son, Teddy. Dressed in faded jeans and a tattered red sweatshirt, Teddy looked as gangly and insecure as he had that morning. But I had thought Teddy wasn’t picking Liz up until later…. I certainly couldn’t afford for her to leave now.

  Barry finished his speech to frenzied clapping, squeals of pleasure, and the band’s enthusiastic rendition of “Ruby, Ruby.” The empanada and truffle platters were again almost empty. On either side of the room, the jewelry salespeople whipped the damask cloths from the jewelry displays. And then something bizarre seemed to be happening. There was noise, scuffling, muffled epithets, and struggling.

  People were fighting.

  I turned in time to see two security guards grabbing Teddy Fury by his elbows. Then the meaty guards picked Teddy up under his arms and began dragging him from the lounge. Liz, up next to the guards’ impassive faces, was scolding them—to no avail.

  Dumbfounded, I scanned the crowd for Julian. Oh, Lord. He’d abandoned his catering tasks and was standing at the corner of the stage, engaged in a heated, fist-shaking argument with Barry Dean. Barry, his arms crossed, was shaking his head.

  “This isn’t happening,” I whispered in horror to no one in particular. One thing I knew from long food-service experience: If there’s a fight at a party, everyone will blame the caterer.

  “Oooh, I just love being waited on,” cooed a woman at my elbow as she reached for an appetizer. I whirled.

  It was Pam Disharoon. The blonde wore a skimpy hot pink dress that showed lots of cleavage and even more leg. “How do you like my outfit?” she demanded, wiggling her hips the same way I’d already seen her do with Barry.

  I said, “Fabulous. Is it a nightgown or a dress?”

  Pam pouted. “Both.” She grabbed the last empanada and scampered away.

  I put down the tray and moved quickly behind the jewelry salespeople to get to the stage. Up there, Liz had joined the Barry-Julian squabble. The guards reached the doors, wrenched them open, and hauled Teddy out. The band kicked up the music a few notches, but the noise of Barry, Liz, and Julian arguing was still clear.

  I hopped onto the stage and approached the three of them, looking as stern as possible. They formed a tight clutch of hostility.

  “He’s a child—” Liz exclaimed, her voice just below a shout. Her silver hair shone in the spotlights.

  “He’s a thief !” Barry retorted, his face flushed, his chin pointing defiantly at Liz.

  “You just cannot do that to a kid,” Julian cried angrily. “You’re going to ruin his—”

  “Excuse me,” I said with as much authority as I could muster. “This argument needs to be put on hold, and I mean, right now. Liz and Julian, go back to work right away. Barry,” I said sternly, “you hired me. There are two hundred potential clients out there who will remember this party for this altercation, unless you stop this minute. We can talk later. Understand?”

  All three mumbled OK, yes, sorry. Julian and Liz hastened down the steps at the side of the stage. Barry opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn’t get the words out before another volcano of yelling erupted.

  By one of the two cash registers—set up to handle the leasing arrangements—a man and woman were arguing. They were young, they were attractive… they were Page Stockham and… Shane Stockham.

  “A thousand dollars a month!” Page shrieked. With her blond hair done up in a fancy French twist, and her slender body sheathed in white silk, she looked like a latter-day Audrey Hepburn. But her demeanor was the opposite of the gracious, softspoken Hepburn’s. She screeched at her husband: “You cheap bastard!”

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” Shane bellowed, using the same tone of voice I’d heard so man
y times when he disagreed with lacrosse referees. “You’re lucky you get anything!”

  “You tightfisted asshole!”

  “You bitch!”

  Shane lunged forward and slapped Page in the face. My stomach turned over. Page responded by kneeing her husband in the groin. When the two backed away from each other, the crowd parted to give them space.

  At that moment, the security guards reentered the lounge. Dumbfounded, they looked to see what the new disruption was about.

  I knew what it was about, having had lots of experience in the domestic violence department. I jumped off the stage and pushed through the throng toward the warring partners. The Stockhams had stopped screaming obscenities. Shane was trying to slap Page again. She was fending him off. I tensed my biceps, stepped up next to them, and grabbed the right arm of Page and the left arm of Shane. Using all my strength, I pulled them apart.

  “Guards!” I yelled. “Come here now, please! Come take Mrs. Stockham out, now! Now! Please!” I glared at Shane Stockham and said tersely, “You need to back off, Shane. Right now.” I continued to grip his left forearm. Shane was a well-muscled man, with slicked-back brown hair and a handsome baby face. He had that young, all-powerful movie star look. “Stop this,” I said in a low voice. “A piece of jewelry isn’t worth a fight.”

  The security guards reached for Page. She yanked herself away from me, then hopped quickly behind one of the jewelry display cases. Shane, meanwhile, also pulled out of my grasp. He turned his back and walked toward the stage, away from the exit doors.